by Janette Oke
Marty’s thoughts turned to her own children. Nandry . . . Nandry and her little family. The oldest of the Davis brood now had four children of her own, and what a perfect young mother she made. Her husband, Josh, teased about their “baker’s dozen,” and Nandry did not even argue with his joking remarks. Yes, their beloved adopted Nandry would have made her natural mama proud. And then there was Nandry’s sister, Clae, their second adopted daughter—Clae and her parson husband, Joe. Clae, too, loved children, but Marty felt—though Clae had not said so—that she secretly hoped the size of their family would not grow too quickly. They had one little girl, Esther Sue. Parson Joe still dreamed of getting more seminary training. Marty and Clark added little amounts to the canning jar, which was gradually accumulating funds to help pay for the much-wanted schooling. Marty hoped there would soon be enough for Joe to go, though the thought of their moving so far away was bittersweet.
Marty could feel the smile leave her face and her eyes cloud over as she thought of their next daughter, Missie. Oh, how she missed Missie! She had assumed it was gradually going to get easier over the years of separation, but it had not been so. With every part of her being Marty ached for Missie. If only . . . if only, she caught herself thinking again, if only I could have one chat—if only I could see her again—if only I could hold her children in my arms—if only I could be sure that she is all right, is happy. But the “if onlys” simply tormented her soul. Marty was here. Missie was many, many days’ journey to the west. Yet how she longed for her sweet Missie. Though this daughter was not bone of her bone nor flesh of her flesh—Missie being the daughter of Clark and his first wife, Ellen—Marty felt that Missie was hers in every sense of the word. The tiny motherless baby girl with the pixie face who had stolen her heart and given life special meaning so many years ago was indeed her Missie. In fact, Missie had captured her love even before Clark had, she remembered. Oh, how I miss you, little girl, Marty whispered against the pane as a tear loosed itself and splashed down on the windowsill. If only—But Marty stopped herself with a shake of the head and a lift of her shoulders.
Across the yard she could see Clare and Arnie. Men now in size and years, they each still had much of the little boy in them. Some folks—those not aware of the death of Marty’s first husband—were surprised by the differences in their appearance. Clare looked and acted more and more like his father, Clem—big, muscular, teasing, boyish. Arnie was taller, darker, with a sensitive nature and finer features like Clark. By turn they loved each other, teased each other, fought with each other, couldn’t live without each other. They were laughing now as they came in for the milk pails, and Clare, who usually did most of the talking, was telling Arnie of some incident at last night’s social event. Arnie didn’t care much for neighborhood socials, but Clare never missed one. Arnie joined in his brother’s laughter at Clare’s description of the mishap, but Marty heard him exclaim over and over, “Poor ol’ Lou! Poor ol’ Lou. I woulda nigh died had it been me.” Clare didn’t seem to feel any sympathy for “poor ol’ Lou,” wholeheartedly enjoying the telling of the story. As the boys neared the door, Marty turned away from the window and dressed slowly. There was still lots of time to get the breakfast on. They were just now going to milk.
Marty brushed her long light brown hair and lifted it, heavy and full, to the back of her head. She had sometimes noted the thinning hair on many older women and secretly pitied them. Well, she didn’t have any need to worry on that score yet. In fact, her hair had really not shown much gray, either. Not like Clark’s. His hair was quite gray at the temples and was even generously sprinkled with gray throughout. On him it looks good—rather distinguished and manly, she thought.
Marty dawdled as she pinned up her hair, still examining her thoughts carefully one by one. A birthday was a good time to do some reminiscing. At length, her hair in place, she made up the bed and tidied the room.
As she left the bedroom, the smell of morning coffee wafted up the stairs to her. Surely Clark didn’t carry out his offer to make breakfast was her first thought. No, she had just seen him down by the far granary. Marty sniffed again. Definitely it was coffee, and fresh-perked, too.
Her curiosity now fully roused, Marty picked up the fragrance of bacon frying and muffins baking. She hurried into the kitchen, her nose fairly twitching with curiosity and the inviting smells.
“Aw, Ma. It was s’posed to be a surprise!”
It was Ellie.
“My land, girl,” said Marty, “it sure enough was a surprise, all right! I couldn’t figure me out who in the world would be stirrin’ ’bout my kitchen this early in the mornin’.”
Ellie smiled. “Luke wanted ya to have it in bed. I knew we’d never git thet far without ya knowin’, but I thought thet maybe I could have it ready by the time ya came down.”
Marty looked at the table. It was covered with a fresh linen cloth and set with the company dishes. A small bowl of wild roses was placed in the center, and each plate and piece of cutlery had been carefully assigned to its place.
“It looks to me like ya are ’bout ready. An’ it does look pretty, dear. Those roses look so good I think I could jest sit an’ feast my eyes ’stead of my stomach an’ not be mindin’ it one little bit.”
Ellie flushed her pleasure at the praise. “Luke found ’em way over at the other side of the pasture.”
Marty buried her nose in the nearest rose, smelling deeply of its fragrance and loving it in a special way because it was given to her in love by a caring family.
“Where is your brother?” she asked when she straightened up.
“Don’t think I’m to be tellin’ thet,” answered Ellie, “but Luke’s not far away an’ will be back in plenty of time fer breakfast. Ya like a cup of coffee while we’re waitin’ fer the rest to git here?”
“Thet’d be nice.” Marty smiled. Instead of merely a birthday girl, she was beginning to feel like royalty.
Ellie brought Marty’s coffee and then returned to the stove to keep an eye on the breakfast items. Marty sipped slowly, watching her younger daughter over the rim of the cup. Had she realized before just how grown-up Ellie was? Why, she was almost a woman! Any day now she might be taking a notion to cook at her own stove. The thought troubled Marty some. Could she stand to lose another of her girls? The last one? How lonely to be the only woman in my kitchen! Ellie had kept life sane and interesting in the years since Missie had left. What would Marty do when Ellie, too, was gone? Why, just the other day, Ma Graham had remarked about what an attractive young woman Ellie had become. Marty, too, had noticed it, but secretly she had been hoping no one else would—not for a while yet. Once people became aware of her little girl turning into a woman and began to whisper, there would be no turning back the clock. Soon their parlor would be buzzing with young gentleman callers, and one of them would be sure to win Ellie’s heart. Marty was blinking back some tears when the men came in from the barn.
Clare was first. “Hey, Ma, you don’t look so bad, considerin’,” he joked, then laughed loudly at his own absurdity as though it were something truly hilarious.
Arnie looked embarrassed. “Aw, Clare, nothin’ funny ’bout yer dumb—”
But Clare slapped him noisily on the back and declared with good humor, “Ma, ya forgot to have ’em give this kid of yers a funny bone when they made him up. Don’t know how to laugh, this kid.”
Clare then turned his attention to his sister. “Hey, it still smells all right. Haven’t ya got it to the burnin’ stage yet?”
Ellie laughed and tried to swipe a wet dishrag across his face, but he ducked away. She was used to Clare’s teasing. Besides, she doted on her oldest brother, and he would have done anything in the world for her. Clare roughed her hair and went to wash for breakfast. Ellie tried to pat her hair back into its proper place, then dished up the scrambled eggs. Arnie, content to wait his turn at the washbasin, finally crossed to Marty. “Happy birthday, Ma,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.
“Thank ya, son. It sure has had a promisin’ start.”
“An’ soon we’ll all be headin’ for Clae’s. Boy, those kids of Nandry’s git noisier ever’ time we see ’em. ‘Uncle Arnie, give me a ride.’ ‘Uncle Arnie, lift me up.’ ‘Uncle Arnie, help me.’ ‘Uncle Arnie—’”
“An’ you love every minute of it,” cut in Ellie.
Arnie did not argue, only grinned. Marty nodded her agreement with Ellie. Arnie did indeed love the kids.
Clark came in, drying his hands on a towel, and glanced around the kitchen. “Well, it ’pears thet my family has ’bout gathered in. Everyone waitin’ on me?”
“Yeah, thought you’d never git here, Pa,” said Clare, taking the rough farm towel and winding it up to snap at Arnie.
“The boys jest now came in,” Ellie informed her pa, “so I guess you haven’t kept anyone waitin’ any.”
The men, finished with their washing and fooling around, took their places at the table. Marty moved her chair into position, and Ellie brought the platter of hot bacon from the stove. Marty looked at the empty place. “Luke,” she said. “Luke isn’t here yet.”
“Still sleepin’?” asked Clare, knowing that Luke did enjoy a good sleep-in on occasion.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” said Ellie. “I think he’d like fer us to jest go ahead.”
“But—” Marty protested, and just then the screen door banged and in came Luke, his hair disheveled by the wind and his face flushed from hurrying. Marty’s heart gave a skip at the sight of her “baby.” Luke was her gentle one, her peacemaker and dream-builder. Luke, fifteen, was smaller than the other boys and had serious and caring soft brown eyes. Marty felt she had never seen another person whose eyes looked as warm and compassionate as her little Luke’s.
“Sorry,” he said under his breath and slid into his place at the table.
Clark’s love for the boy showed in his simple nod. “Would you like to wash?”
“I can wait until we pray; then the food won’t be gittin’ cold.”
“Reckon the food will wait well enough. Go ahead.”
Luke hurried from the table, inspecting his hands as he went. They were covered with red stains. He was soon back, and the family sat quietly as Clark read the morning Scripture portion and then led in prayer.
His prayer of the morning included a special thanks for the mother of the home and his helpmate over the years. Clark reminded the Lord that Marty was truly worthy of His special blessing. Marty remembered an earlier prayer, so long ago when she was a hurting, bewildered, and reluctant bride. Clark had asked the Father to bless her then, too. God had. She had felt Him with her through the years, and these dear children about her table were evidence of His blessing.
After the prayer ended and the food was passed, Clare looked over at Luke between bites of bacon and eggs. “So, little brother. What ya been up to so early in the mornin’?”
Luke squirmed a bit. “Well, I jest wanted Ma to have some strawberries fer her birthday breakfast, but boy—were they little and hard to find this year! Guess it ain’t been warm enough yet.” He held out a small cup of tiny strawberries.
Marty’s throat constricted and her eyes filled again with tears. Her sleepyhead had crawled out early to get her some birthday strawberries. She remembered back to when Missie had first started the tradition of “strawberries for Ma’s birthday breakfast.” After Missie had left, the children had pooled their efforts for a few years. Then with the breaking of the pastureland that had housed the best strawberry patch, the tradition had drifted away. And now dear Luke had tried valiantly to revive it again.
Clare reached over and roughed his younger brother’s hair. His eyes said, You’re all right, ya know that, kid, but his mouth was too busy with Ellie’s breakfast muffins.
“Ya should have told me,” Arnie whispered. “I’da helped ya.”
Marty looked around the kitchen at the four children still sharing their table, and her heart filled with joy and overflowed with love. The smile she shared with Clark needed no words of explanation.
Two
Birthday Dinner
“Thet was a lovely dinner, Clae,” Marty remarked, delicately catching the last traces of cake crumbs from her lips with the tip of her tongue. Clare’s satisfied groan as he held his full stomach was eloquent. Nandry’s Josh laughed.
As the plates were pushed back and another round of coffee poured, the pleasant clamor of visiting began. It seemed that everyone had something to say all at once, including the children. Clark held up his hands for silence and eventually drew the attention of even the youngest in the group.
“Hold it,” he chuckled, “ain’t nobody gonna hear nobody in all this racket. How ’bout a little organization here?”
Nandry’s oldest, Tina, giggled. “Oh, Grandpa, how can one org’nize chatter?”
“Can I go now? Can I go play with Uncle Arnie?” Andrew interrupted, the only boy in Nandry and Josh’s family.
“Just before we all leave the table and scatter who knows where, how about if we let Grandma open up her birthday gifts?” suggested Clae.
“Oh yes! Let’s. Let’s!” shouted the children, clapping their hands. Presents were always fun, even if they were for someone else.
Grandma Marty was given the chair of honor, and the gifts began to arrive, carried in and presented by various family members. The children shared scraps of artwork and pictures. Tina had even hemmed, by hand stitch, a new handkerchief. Nandry and Clae, presenting gifts from their families, laughed when they realized they had both sewn Marty new aprons. Clare and Arnie had gone together and purchased a brand-new teapot, declaring that now she could “git rid of thet ol’ one with the broken spout.” Not too likely was Marty’s silent comment. I’ll plant spring flowers in it and put it in the kitchen window. But aloud she admired the fancy new one.
Ellie’s gift to her mother was a delicate cameo brooch, and Marty suspected that Clark had contributed largely to its purchase. Luke was last. His eyes showed both eagerness and embarrassment as he came slowly forward. It was clear he was just a bit uncertain as to how the others would view his gift.
“I’m afraid it didn’t cost nothin’,” he murmured.
“Thet isn’t what gives a gift its value,” Marty replied, both curious and concerned.
“I know you always said thet, but some folk . . . well . . . they think thet ya shouldn’t give what cost ya nothin’.”
“Ah,” said Clark, seeming to realize what was bothering the boy, “but the cost is not always figured in dollars and cents. To give of yerself sometimes be far more costly than reachin’ into one’s pocket fer cash.”
Luke smiled and looked more at ease as he pushed a clumsy package toward Marty.
“Ya said thet ya liked ’em, so . . .” He shrugged and backed away as his mother reached for the gift.
Heavy and bulky, it was wrapped in brown paper and tied at the top with store twine. Marty was trying to imagine what kind of a gift could come in such a package. She untied the twine with hurried fingers and let the brown paper fall stiffly to the floor. Before her eyes lay two small shrubs, complete with roots and part of the countryside in which they had grown. Marty recognized them at once as small bushes from the hill country. One summer when she and Clark had taken the youngsters into the hills for a family outing, she had exclaimed over them when in full bloom. How beautiful they had looked in their dress of scarlet blossoms. She caught her breath as she visualized the beautiful shrubs blooming in her own garden.
“Do you think they’ll grow okay, Pa?” Luke’s anxiety was clear in his voice. “I tried to be as careful as I could in diggin’ ’em up. Tried to be sure to keep from hurtin’ the roots an’—”
“We’ll give ’em the best possible care an’ try to match their home-growin’ conditions as much as possible,” Clark assured Luke, then continued under his breath, “—iffen I have to haul their native soil from them hills by the wagonload.”
Marty could
n’t stop the tears this time. It was so much like Luke. He had traveled many miles and had gone to a great deal of effort and care in order to present to her the shrubs he knew she loved. And yet he had stood in embarrassment before his family, his eyes begging them to please try to understand his gift and the reason for his giving it. She pulled him gently to her and hugged him close. Luke wasn’t too fond of motherly kisses in public places, so Marty refrained from any further attention.
“Thank you, son,” she said quietly. “I can hardly wait fer them to bloom.”
Luke grinned and moved back into the family circle.
All eyes then turned to Clark. It had become a family tradition that the final gift to be given at such family gatherings was always from the head of the home. Clark cleared his throat now and stood to his feet.
“Well, my gift ain’t as pretty as some thet sit here. It’ll never bloom in years to come, either. But it does come with love, an’ I hope it be somethin’ thet truly gives ya pleasure. No fancy package—jest this here little envelope.”
He handed the plain brown envelope to Marty. She turned it over in her hand, looking for some writing that would indicate what she was holding. There was nothing.
“Open it, Gram’ma,” came a small voice, quickly echoed by many others.
Marty carefully tore off one corner, slit the envelope open, and let the contents fall into her lap—two pieces of paper and on them words in Clark’s handwriting. Marty picked up the first. Aloud she read the message. “This is for the new things that you be needing. Just let me know when and where you want to do the shopping.”
“Ya should have read the other one first,” interjected Clark.
Marty picked up the second slip of paper and read, “Arrangements have been made for tickets on the train to Missie. We leave—”
Tickets to go to Missie! All Marty’s recent thoughts and longings centering on their daughter so many miles away, all those “if onlys” crowded in around her. She was going to see Missie again. “Oh, Clark!” was all she could manage, and then she was in his arms sobbing for the wonder of it—the pure joy of the promise the tickets held.